


November 4, 2012

by PunishedKonami



Series: Something Approaching a Superheroverse [3]
Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Gen, Gun Violence, Home Invasion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 15:02:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18166712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunishedKonami/pseuds/PunishedKonami
Summary: Life sometimes doesn't work out as we think it will.





	November 4, 2012

1:15 a.m. Peter Parker’s grainy vision was only just able to make sense of his clock. He groaned once the realization hit. He woke up. Again. He’d hoped that this night would be different. The day went well enough. An improved test score. A resulting dinner -- at his favorite place, too: _Houseman_. They never went to Houseman. It was when they did that Peter knew that occasion was special, what with having to take a bus then transferring off onto the subway, both with his entire family crushed against the mass of people that relied on the MTA, unable to breathe. It was an involved affair, one that Peter recognized would lead to something wonderful. But they had eaten, now; it was behind him. And now what was in front of him -- what he was staring at -- was the beige popcorn ceiling of his room. Blurry. Out of reach.

He reached into the breast pocket of his hoodie, grabbed and pulled out his phone. He pressed the center button, pressed the numbers for his password, pressed the Enter key. Briefly he saw the Iron Man photo on his home screen before he pressed the Twitter app logo. He then scrolled through his feed, barely registering the jokes that were there.

Then he heard something. Murmuring. Words, beyond his door. Getting louder. He heard his uncle’s voice, that he could understand. And another one. Unfamiliar. Male. Peter and his uncle were the only two men of the house. Peter groaned, sat up in his bed, lifted his free hand to his face, rubbed his eyes. He lowered his arm to grab the comforter that was draped over him, lifted it, tossed it aside. He turned, gripped the bed frame, pushed himself onto the floor. He walked over to the desk to the side of the room, put his phone there, then walked over to the door. Grabbed the handle and turned. Pushed it open. The voices became clearer, as did the words they spoke.

“This doesn’t have to be an issue,” the unfamiliar one said. “Just give me the wallet.”

“Okay,” Ben Parker said.

“Drop it on the floor. Slowly.”

A thud. Then a pause.

“All right,” the man said. “The watch too.”

“I can’t do that, I’m sorry.”

“Why.”

“It -- it was a gift. From my father.”

“I don’t wanna have to escape with it --”

“No one will have to escape, because no one is going to get hurt today. Please. I have something else that’s more valuable in the den. I can show you, right now.”

Another pause. Peter pushed the door further open.

“Fine,” the man said. “But first, tell your kid to go back to bed.”

Peter froze for a second. Before he stuck his head out.

He was only just awake enough to comprehend the image before him. Beyond the door he peered through, a man, his uncle, stiff and arms raised. Beyond _him_ , another one. Peter Parker couldn’t see his face. He too was wearing a hoodie, but he had the hood turned up, with a mask under that. He was holding something.

“Go back to sleep, Peter,” Ben said, not turning to face him.

The dim lamp lit the object so that it shone dimly. Something metal. Peter’s eyes jumped upwards then.

“Ben --”

“I said _go to bed_ , Peter.” His voice barely quivered beyond a tremor.

“Do like he says, son,” the other man said. Steely.

Peter’s eyes turned towards the man, wide, wild. “Please just leave us alone, you can’t do this --”

“ _Peter_!” Ben shouted with a turn of his head. Peter saw his eyes. Wide. He was supposed to be forty-seven years old. Peter knew that. But he looked _old_. Older than he’d ever seen him before.

Silence. Peter gripped the doorframe. Tighter. The skin of his fingers were turning red. Felt almost as if they were about to pop. Then they relaxed. He stuck his head back into his room. Pulled the door shut. Felt the bolt enter the mortice. He lifted his hand towards the lock, turned it. Slowly. They were still talking in muffled tongues beyond the door. Peter figured that he may want to go after him if things went to hell, and that if he turned it as slowly as he did, the invader might not hear it. Eventually he felt the lock enter its latch, with only just a sound that he could hear. It may have been quiet enough. Just.

He looked at the bed. Only minutes ago in his fits of insomnia, he flicked through his phone there. His body convulsed. So did his head. Couldn’t lie back down. Not now. Not through this. His stomach churned at the sight of it. On top of everything else. As if his body would physically reject it if he attempted to. Like one would an incompatible organ. Then he turned towards his desk. His laptop sat there, as did the phone he was using moments ago. He walked over to the desk, putting a hand on the wall to steady himself. His legs were knocking against each other like gelatin, ready to fall apart at a moment’s notice. A few more steps. Then he grabbed onto the mahogany flat-top of the desk. Moved a hand over it to pick up his phone. Grabbed it, lifted it up, pressed the button on the front, swiped left. On the screen: “EMERGENCY CALL,” then a number-pad. Peter put in the numbers. Then his thumb hung over the green circle. As air did in his throat. Words hung there, unable to be released. As if trapped. A sound did escape, however; a groan, sounding as if its emitter was only half-alive. Awaiting the inevitable.

He breathed deeply through his nose, out through his mouth. Pressed the lower button on the side. He saw the volume slider tick down, down, almost to nothing. Then he pressed the green button. His arm trembled as he brought the phone to his ear. Dial tone. Dial tone. Dial tone.

The earpiece sounded, “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

Peter forced the words out, barely louder than a whisper. “Eight-four-four-nine, 168th Street.” Then pressed the red button. He hyperventilated, slammed the phone down on the desk, collapsed on himself, curled up. He knew how police dealt with people like him. Hopefully when they came they wouldn’t notice him. He’d hide himself away, as he was doing now.

He shook his head, clamped his eyes tight. Held tight to memory. _Your bravery knows no bounds._ Ben’s words. It felt as if it happened days ago. Peter had him sit down. Told him he didn’t feel like the girl he thought he was. Wanted to be something different. Ben told him that. Peter told him his name. Ben said he loved it. Rolled off the tongue. Alliteration did that. And Peter knew it. It was why he chose it. It rolled off the tongue. Over and over, he heard that he was brave. Bravest man he knew. And Peter believed it. For a time.

He wasn’t sure now.

But he breathed. In and out. Over and over. Another thing Ben taught him. He dealt with stress too. He relied on exercises like these in trade school. It got him through. Ben taught it when he was young. It got Peter through -- everything. Elementary, middle schools. It was helping now. Peter grabbed onto the flat-top again, pulled himself up. His legs shuddered again, albeit briefly as he deposited himself in the chair. The call was done. All that was left to do was wait. Wait, either for a bad end, or a worse one.

He slid his arm across the flat-top, grasped the purple earbuds on it, lifted his other hand, separated the wires, put them in his ear canals. He lifted the lid of the laptop, pressed the power button. Peter squinted, turned his head from the light that then beamed into his room. Slowly turned his head back. He made out his lock screen. His picture, then his name. Peter Parker. It was a few days ago that he figured out how to change it. He had to ask May to do it for him. And she did. Peter looked down at the keyboard. At his quivering hands. Peter pushed the keys, attempting to enter his password. Pressed Enter. “The user name or password is incorrect,” it said. He clicked the back button. Breathed, typed slower. Pressed Enter again. He sighed when the profile loaded. His right hand shifted towards him, towards the trackpad. His fingers pressed on it, moved upwards towards the browser. Clicked on it. It opened, showing his homepage, a darker version of the usual one. Peter’s eyes rested, unclenched. At least now he could see. He looked underneath the search bar, at an item with a star next to it. It read, “YouTube - chill tunes.” He didn’t know if it would help. He clicked it anyway.

The page loaded. Music, electronic, streamed in through the headphones. Peter manipulated the trackpad so that the cursor rested on the volume icon, which expanded into a slider. Peter pressed the trackpad twice, dragged the slider to its lowest audible setting. He still wanted to hear what little he could. But he couldn’t hear much. Murmurs, indistinct from his position in the house. Usually he could hear most things. Not this. The music started to pick up somewhat. There was a bass drop. Two booms, one after the other. Peter manipulated the trackpad again, pressed the skip button. A more gentle song, piano, started. After a few seconds he noticed something. Outside of the headphones, silence. Not even the murmurs made themselves known anymore. Peter paused the video, grabbed the earbuds, pulled them out of his ears. Looked towards the door. His breath caught in its throat again. He didn’t know how long he looked at it. Nor how long it took for him to stand up, place a hand on the wall, walk towards the door.

What he would find after he unlatched the lock, turned the door handle, pulled back the bolt, and opened the door would be the rest of his life.


End file.
